718 Vhalar 56...
If the legend had truth beyond the fact the Tower was constructed during the Corpse King’s reign, nightfall was when the disappearance began. From the light that streamed in through the still open gate casting his shadow long and gangly out in front of him, Mathias estimated there were about two more breaks of daylight left. Any longer, and he ran the risk of being subjected to whatever odd phenomena had sparked the foreboding fables that surrounded the dark stone building like a heavy winter’s mist.
Whether the details were accurate or not, something happened to those who attempted to weather the nights within the Tower’s belly, and, while he was curious to know exactly what it might be, he could clearly hear Graciana’s voice in his head. “Keep perspective, darling. Dying is, after all, the ultimate failure.” There were times to break down doors and times to tread lightly. The Tower’s history, while interesting, wasn’t the reason he’d come, and it wouldn’t be the reason he stayed.
For now, at any rate.
Methodically and meticulously, he searched the rooms. The first, the smallest and to his left, was almost entirely filled with garbage. There were broken bits of glass, moulding piles of food refuse, torn and stained fabrics, and a plethora of other useless items all mashed together and coated in a comparatively neat layer of dust. He didn’t dig through any of it, though the looser, more recent additions – from what he could tell by the difference of how many cobwebs and how much grime had accumulated – he kicked about with the toe of his boot, finding nothing.
The other rooms were similar, different sizes but little more than glorified trash bins. By the last, his expectations were nearly nothing. It was about large enough for him to take four or five even strides from one wall to the other in any direction from its centre, but what stood out to him immediately - enough that he paused at the room’s entrance to stare at the worn stone tiles of the floor – was the lack of garbage.
There was just as much dust about the floor as anywhere else; yet the footprints that were left behind by those that preceded him, chaotic to the point of indistinction elsewhere in the Tower’s ground floor, stopped about half-way into the room. Curious, he followed in their wake, careful to make certain he didn’t get too close to the line between where the prints ended. He glanced up at the ceiling, but above was only the dim, dark recesses of cold stone. Nothing looked out of the ordinary aside from how empty the room was.
Rather than attempt to cross over the threshold, he retreated, passing out through the gate to fetch one of the bloodlights from a nearby street lantern. The sun had fallen far enough that, though he’d become somewhat accustomed to the murk of the Tower’s interior, searching for particular details was nearly impossible without the smooth-skinned fruit he brought back with him.
Armed with a ruddy glow, he returned to the last room. Much as before, there was nothing of note. No mechanisms on the walls nor ceiling nor floor – merely the abrupt end of any trace of passage. Again, he left, and, again, he returned, this time with an old, half-rotted shoe from one of the other rooms. He carefully tossed it over to the other side of the room; his bloodlight he kept firmly in his free hand and his eyes he kept firmly fixed upon the slow, shallow arc of the shoe.
It landed with a leathery thlunk, echoing off of the walls for a trill before the sound faded once more into silence. He waited, keenly interested in how the disturbance might affect the room or the Tower or the shoe, but, after several bits had passed, there was no change. If it wasn’t a matter of something simply crossing the line, perhaps it was weight. Shortly thereafter, he had deposited a small mountain of trash, going so far as to allow his arm to cross over the line as well, yet everything remained the same.
That is until he decided to take the step himself.
One moment he was settling his foot on the untouched floor next to the pile of relocated garbage, the next he was falling through the air. There was the unmistakable sound of stone grinding against stone, but it was all he had time to take note of as the air rushed past his ears and bit into his skin. He felt the cool sensation of his spark drawing upon his ether, but he didn’t need the reminder to know full well that he should have been afraid or, at the very least, astonished.
The bloodlight remained in his grip as he actively began to pull his ether through his spark, the gentle chill of his magic tingling at his fingertips as the minuscule spheres of his concentrated power swarmed around him. The shape and curve and angle of his body was second nature to him, and still he worked quickly, layer after layer, point after point, he hastily reconstructed his armour.
Trills ticked onwards, and his light proved too weak to illuminate the ground before he slammed into it. He felt layer after layer of his defences burst into a million pieces, ether scattering away into nothingness, all within the time it took for him to blink – a small gasp escaping his lungs as the heavily mitigated force of the collision finally hit him. The bloodlight had burst upon impact, its light splattered across the ground and over his hands, but, as he slowly rose to his feet, he found that he’d managed to replicate enough layers about him that he was, more or less, unharmed.
How long such a state might last, however, he was far less certain of.
In the next trill, however, he was back on his feet, more so out of concern over his surrounds than being truly oriented to the situation. All around him – the walls, the floor, perhaps even the ceiling that had disappeared into the shadowed darkness above him – crawled with the vinelike veins of the creep. He quickly brushed himself down, knocking at the areas where the plant growth clung to him, the bloodlight’s sticky pulp clinging to his hands, leaving little glowing spots of crimson on his trousers and shirt.
Already the light had begun to fade in intensity like a dying flame. He didn’t need much to notice there were no ladders or staircases to return him to the surface. There was only a tunnel on his left that led deeper into the darkness. In spite of the gradually fading light, Mathias took the time to reapply his defences, efficient and swift, but far more meticulous and steady. His ether swirled around him, encasing him, solidifying into the familiar pressure of protection.
Surrounded as he was by creep, he opted to take the extra time to prepare a shield as well. He had nothing on him he could use as a weapon – a poor choice in hindsight –, and while a shield was hardly an offensive force, it was still solid and far easier to manipulate than it was to do so with a creep covered stone.
Again, ether pooled at his fingertips, only this time the crisp, cool nature of the ether was concentrated into twelve evenly spaced points – seventeen million spheres per side, twenty million spheres per anchor, and the rest of the fifty billion points of his concentrated ether settled uniformly into the spaces between. The air shivered for a trill after, then there was slight shimmer in the half-light. It hovered in front of his fingers, only a handful of centimetres away. Though he could feel the pull of his spark far more keenly than before, a sign that he’d used a significant amount of ether in total, it remained cool and calm for the time being.
He was far more concerned with the amount of time he had left before he was cast into complete darkness.
Glancing around the area once last time in the off-chance he might have missed something the first time, he pulled in a slow breath through his lips and let it flow gently out through his nose. Without any other option left to him, he started down the tunnel. Though he cast light like a moving beacon, he kept his footfalls soft and pace quick but cautious.
Whatever was ahead of him – for it wasn’t a matter of “if”, not with how prevalent the creep was here – he kept his eyes sharp and focused. While he could hear little beyond his own steady heartbeat and breath, he did what he could to strain his ears to pick up sounds beyond the ever-shrinking radius of his vision.
Which proved to be a wise foresight as he heard the rustle of leafy vines long before he caught sight of the rapidly approaching shadows.
If the legend had truth beyond the fact the Tower was constructed during the Corpse King’s reign, nightfall was when the disappearance began. From the light that streamed in through the still open gate casting his shadow long and gangly out in front of him, Mathias estimated there were about two more breaks of daylight left. Any longer, and he ran the risk of being subjected to whatever odd phenomena had sparked the foreboding fables that surrounded the dark stone building like a heavy winter’s mist.
Whether the details were accurate or not, something happened to those who attempted to weather the nights within the Tower’s belly, and, while he was curious to know exactly what it might be, he could clearly hear Graciana’s voice in his head. “Keep perspective, darling. Dying is, after all, the ultimate failure.” There were times to break down doors and times to tread lightly. The Tower’s history, while interesting, wasn’t the reason he’d come, and it wouldn’t be the reason he stayed.
For now, at any rate.
Methodically and meticulously, he searched the rooms. The first, the smallest and to his left, was almost entirely filled with garbage. There were broken bits of glass, moulding piles of food refuse, torn and stained fabrics, and a plethora of other useless items all mashed together and coated in a comparatively neat layer of dust. He didn’t dig through any of it, though the looser, more recent additions – from what he could tell by the difference of how many cobwebs and how much grime had accumulated – he kicked about with the toe of his boot, finding nothing.
The other rooms were similar, different sizes but little more than glorified trash bins. By the last, his expectations were nearly nothing. It was about large enough for him to take four or five even strides from one wall to the other in any direction from its centre, but what stood out to him immediately - enough that he paused at the room’s entrance to stare at the worn stone tiles of the floor – was the lack of garbage.
There was just as much dust about the floor as anywhere else; yet the footprints that were left behind by those that preceded him, chaotic to the point of indistinction elsewhere in the Tower’s ground floor, stopped about half-way into the room. Curious, he followed in their wake, careful to make certain he didn’t get too close to the line between where the prints ended. He glanced up at the ceiling, but above was only the dim, dark recesses of cold stone. Nothing looked out of the ordinary aside from how empty the room was.
Rather than attempt to cross over the threshold, he retreated, passing out through the gate to fetch one of the bloodlights from a nearby street lantern. The sun had fallen far enough that, though he’d become somewhat accustomed to the murk of the Tower’s interior, searching for particular details was nearly impossible without the smooth-skinned fruit he brought back with him.
Armed with a ruddy glow, he returned to the last room. Much as before, there was nothing of note. No mechanisms on the walls nor ceiling nor floor – merely the abrupt end of any trace of passage. Again, he left, and, again, he returned, this time with an old, half-rotted shoe from one of the other rooms. He carefully tossed it over to the other side of the room; his bloodlight he kept firmly in his free hand and his eyes he kept firmly fixed upon the slow, shallow arc of the shoe.
It landed with a leathery thlunk, echoing off of the walls for a trill before the sound faded once more into silence. He waited, keenly interested in how the disturbance might affect the room or the Tower or the shoe, but, after several bits had passed, there was no change. If it wasn’t a matter of something simply crossing the line, perhaps it was weight. Shortly thereafter, he had deposited a small mountain of trash, going so far as to allow his arm to cross over the line as well, yet everything remained the same.
That is until he decided to take the step himself.
One moment he was settling his foot on the untouched floor next to the pile of relocated garbage, the next he was falling through the air. There was the unmistakable sound of stone grinding against stone, but it was all he had time to take note of as the air rushed past his ears and bit into his skin. He felt the cool sensation of his spark drawing upon his ether, but he didn’t need the reminder to know full well that he should have been afraid or, at the very least, astonished.
The bloodlight remained in his grip as he actively began to pull his ether through his spark, the gentle chill of his magic tingling at his fingertips as the minuscule spheres of his concentrated power swarmed around him. The shape and curve and angle of his body was second nature to him, and still he worked quickly, layer after layer, point after point, he hastily reconstructed his armour.
Trills ticked onwards, and his light proved too weak to illuminate the ground before he slammed into it. He felt layer after layer of his defences burst into a million pieces, ether scattering away into nothingness, all within the time it took for him to blink – a small gasp escaping his lungs as the heavily mitigated force of the collision finally hit him. The bloodlight had burst upon impact, its light splattered across the ground and over his hands, but, as he slowly rose to his feet, he found that he’d managed to replicate enough layers about him that he was, more or less, unharmed.
How long such a state might last, however, he was far less certain of.
In the next trill, however, he was back on his feet, more so out of concern over his surrounds than being truly oriented to the situation. All around him – the walls, the floor, perhaps even the ceiling that had disappeared into the shadowed darkness above him – crawled with the vinelike veins of the creep. He quickly brushed himself down, knocking at the areas where the plant growth clung to him, the bloodlight’s sticky pulp clinging to his hands, leaving little glowing spots of crimson on his trousers and shirt.
Already the light had begun to fade in intensity like a dying flame. He didn’t need much to notice there were no ladders or staircases to return him to the surface. There was only a tunnel on his left that led deeper into the darkness. In spite of the gradually fading light, Mathias took the time to reapply his defences, efficient and swift, but far more meticulous and steady. His ether swirled around him, encasing him, solidifying into the familiar pressure of protection.
Surrounded as he was by creep, he opted to take the extra time to prepare a shield as well. He had nothing on him he could use as a weapon – a poor choice in hindsight –, and while a shield was hardly an offensive force, it was still solid and far easier to manipulate than it was to do so with a creep covered stone.
Again, ether pooled at his fingertips, only this time the crisp, cool nature of the ether was concentrated into twelve evenly spaced points – seventeen million spheres per side, twenty million spheres per anchor, and the rest of the fifty billion points of his concentrated ether settled uniformly into the spaces between. The air shivered for a trill after, then there was slight shimmer in the half-light. It hovered in front of his fingers, only a handful of centimetres away. Though he could feel the pull of his spark far more keenly than before, a sign that he’d used a significant amount of ether in total, it remained cool and calm for the time being.
He was far more concerned with the amount of time he had left before he was cast into complete darkness.
Glancing around the area once last time in the off-chance he might have missed something the first time, he pulled in a slow breath through his lips and let it flow gently out through his nose. Without any other option left to him, he started down the tunnel. Though he cast light like a moving beacon, he kept his footfalls soft and pace quick but cautious.
Whatever was ahead of him – for it wasn’t a matter of “if”, not with how prevalent the creep was here – he kept his eyes sharp and focused. While he could hear little beyond his own steady heartbeat and breath, he did what he could to strain his ears to pick up sounds beyond the ever-shrinking radius of his vision.
Which proved to be a wise foresight as he heard the rustle of leafy vines long before he caught sight of the rapidly approaching shadows.
